


Heat

by MostFacinorous



Series: Warmth [2]
Category: Hannibal (TV)
Genre: A surprising amount of plot despite the other tags, Angst, Autoerotic Asphyxiation, Biting, Breathplay, Canon-Typical Violence, Choking, Dirty Talk, Dubious Consent, Exhibitionism, Gay Sex, Jealousy, Latex, Light Masochism, M/M, Marking, Non-Consensual Drug Use, Recreational Drug Use, References to Child Abuse, References to Incest, Sadism, Temperature Play, Vac Rack, Whipping, references to cannibalism
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-06-15
Updated: 2013-06-15
Packaged: 2017-12-15 01:18:43
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 20,202
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/843640
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MostFacinorous/pseuds/MostFacinorous
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A semi-sequel to 'Fever', but it stands alone. </p><p>Mason Verger comes into Hannibal Lecter and Will Graham's world, and everything begins turning outside of either of their designs. Needless to say, this is unacceptable to all concerned.<br/>Mason's enjoying the hell out of it, though.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Heat

**Author's Note:**

> So because I wanted to write this so that it would feel like it was in the same world as the TV series, I have Mason being called Mack quite a lot. (In deference to the likelihood of them not calling him by his own name, when/if the show includes the character.) Apologies for any confusion this may cause.
> 
> The dubcon warned for is not Hannibal/Will. That is blatantly consensual, if a bit twisted.

Mack had been referred to him by the court.

He was a spoiled rich boy with issues in regards to authority, and, as much as he knew he was there by court orders, he also knew that regardless of Hannibal’s write up, his father could and would pay off the right people and see to it his record would come away squeaky clean.

In fact, all he needed was for Hannibal to sign off on the paper work.

He was there for all of a minute before he first attempted bribing him into releasing him from the state recommended six months’ therapy.

Hannibal had simply raised an eyebrow, shaken his head, and seated himself behind his desk.

He casually flipped open the folder, scanning over it as though he needed to review any of its contents. But, for the most part, he knew Mack’s story.

Firstborn child, only son.  He had a younger sister, Maggie. But he didn’t care about her much. Not only because he didn’t spend much time in the same place as her, but also because she was older than the people he cared to spend his time with.

Mack was here because he had been charged with and found guilty of molesting some of the youngest campers at his father’s summer retreat for less fortunate children.

Hannibal would not ignore that, but he was interested first and foremost in why Mason thought that he would be able to buy his way out of his sentence.

“Well you wouldn’t be the first dirty shrink, would you? No, my father sees to it that squeaky wheels get oiled, and I am the squeakiest wheel in his stable. And it is a considerable stable, I hafta say.”

“My morals are not for sale, Mason, and I will fight any requests that cross my desk for a transfer from you. I would not risk you encountering another ‘dirty shrink’.” He said the last with a tone of utter distaste, unable to palate the  existence of the sort of person who would let someone like Mack go without sinking their claws into his mind and tearing him apart piece by filthy piece.

Someone like Alana Bloom, perhaps. Though she would not take his money, she would allow him to be shuttled off elsewhere with very little fuss.

Mack wrinkled his nose, whether at the use of his full first name or his unwillingness to be bribed, he couldn’t tell.

“Right.” He drawled. He slumped in his chair and then perked up. “You want to keep me close, huh? So you want to hear about it then? The kids I’ve diddled, you want the details?”

“I want to know why you do these things, yes. It will help me determine how best to treat you.” He did not change his inflection, did not narrow his eyes. Being judgmental would not help him with this case, nor any other, and he was very good at his job.

“And you said you aren’t dirty.” Mack leaned forward, voice sly, eyes all but sparkling. “Ever killed someone? I have, patient confidentiality, ha. Africa, it’s wild out there, laws can’t touch most people and it’s easy to ride off into the sunset. Build yourself a little guillotine… The rush is like nothing you can inject or smoke. Do you treat children, Doctor Lecter? Have you stretched them out on that couch over there? Do you touch them, make them cry?” His voice went deeper as his imagination waxed perverse.  

“Does the idea excite you?” He really didn’t need to ask, it was obvious. By the smell, by the way the rhythm of Mason’s words sped up, racing like the pulse point that pounded in his neck. But he wanted to steer it away from him, steer the words that came in this fervor towards introspection.

“Are you offering to let me watch? Because I could be into that.” He cast his gaze around the room, eyes falling on the upper story balcony. “What if I just sat up there? I could even film it for you if you wanted. What do you think?”

“I think that, insofar as someone ostensibly here for rehabilitation from an unhealthy sexual obsession with minors, you are not making a particularly promising start.”

Mason grew very still and very serious, at that.

“And tell me, Doctor Lecter, what’re you gonna do if my six months are up and I don’t show signs of some sort of miraculous recovery?”

“I will either advise that these bi-weekly meetings of ours become a permanent installment in your schedule book, or advise that you be placed on a list of child molesters for the rest of your life.”

Mason scoffed.

“My father would see to it that that didn’t stick. You’ll have to think of something much more severe than that if you want to scare me straight. Or, teleiophilic, as the case may be.” He looked thoroughly pleased with himself, and sat back with his arms crossed over his chest.

“And why do you suppose your father comes to your rescue, time and again? Is it for fear of the marks on your- and by extension his- name?” He leaned back in his seat as well and regarded Mason over the flat plane he made of the pen gripped between his fingers. Everything about Mason was for display, from his flashy clothes to the way he crossed an ankle over his knee, holding himself in a pose as though he expected, at any moment, to be photographed. Very sure of himself, young mister Verger. Hannibal could see the empty confidence in every line of his body. How he would love to destroy those lines.

“Our name, our face… I look just like him, you know. He tells everyone. So proud. He likes the thought that, when he’s gone, I’m gonna be exactly the man he is. And anything that gets in the way of that, any troublesome predilection for oh… parties, drugs, kids… all swept under the rug. When he dies, I’ll be the perfect replacement on the family throne.”

“And your sister? What does she think of this?” Hannibal pressed on, hoping perhaps for some leverage here in the form of guild over being a poor role model.

“Who gives a fuck?”

“Language.” He was very mild about it, but he would not tolerate it in this room.

“Whatever. No one cares what Mags thinks. She’s just kept happy and that’s fine.”

 “Enough.” His command was firm but even. He didn’t want to seem judgmental so he cleared his throat. “Your hour is up. Remember where we were, we will start from there next time.”

“You got it.” He threw a saucy salute and stood, wiggling as though to loosen his muscles before he headed for the door.

Hannibal saw him out, and as he closed the door behind him, he let his mask drop and his face fell into a black rage for the space of a few seconds. Infuriating, insofar as he was capable of being infuriated. He wasn’t entirely sure why he had such a strong drive to destroy the man, but he would resist. For now. He did not like to hunt from those closest to him, and what’s more he couldn’t imagine how Mason Verger must taste. Even his fine cooking may not be capable of relieving that level of grease. He composed himself, turned to the other door, and called Will Graham in.

“Hello, Will.” He made sure to smile when he greeted him, aware that he should allow, if possible, even fewer emotions to manifest with this particular client. Only care should show, care and concern for his well being, because that was all Will should ever know of him.

Cocaine and rabbit’s blood, to dull the dog’s nose.

“Hello Hannibal. How are you feeling?” For one moment, he thought his mask had slipped, then he remembered. The last time he’d seen Will, he’d been recovering from a fever.

“Well, thank you.” He gestured Will in and closed the door behind him. The gesture felt more deliberate than usual. Odd. “And how are you, Will?” He asked as he sat down, careful not to disturb the lines of his jacket.

Will was less than concerned with his appearance, as usual, lounging backwards in the way that only people experiencing real exhaustion did.

Will shrugged, automatically shuffling the question off as unimportant. Which, of course, meant both that it was important, and that there was something more pressing on Will’s mind just at the moment.

He knew which he had to address first, if he was to have any hope of accomplishing anything. Will could be quite stubborn when it came to… well, everything, to be honest.

“Something troubling you, Will?”

“I…” He could see Will literally bite his tongue, before his lips closed over the tableau. Will’s eyes flicked up to Hannibal’s face, then away again. Interesting. Something to do with him, perhaps? Not the big one; Will would not be as calm as he was if that were the case. But his eyes continued the dance, and each time they traveled up to his face Will looked as though he might speak. Each time, he seemed to change his mind at the last moment.

“Is it something I have done?” He asked at length, allowing the tone of voice long ago labeled as ‘concerned’ slip out. He furrowed his brows, and hoped it wasn’t too late of a reaction. Careful, all of it so careful.

  
“Not—no. I uh. I looked up what you said to me, when you were fever stricken. A lullaby, you told me… um. Was it really a lullaby? ‘I won’t let anyone hurt you?’ Kind of… I don’t know. Serious, for putting kids to sleep.”

“Ours is a sterner culture, Will. Do you believe I have reason to lie to you?”

“Not lie, maybe… hide. Or… repress.” Will was choosing his words carefully, for all that he was mumbling them.

Hannibal let a small frown crease his features, but he was inwardly delighted. There was no way that Will could know of his sister—he wondered what sort of empathy fed tall tales his friend would pick up from what his own psychologist termed his ‘person suit’. Still, another option occurred, and he scoured his mind, somewhat afraid he may have said something else, something more telling, which he did not remember.

“Every man has things they do not speak of. Why are mine now of interest? What is it you think I may be hiding from you?” He maintained the concerned tone, though he held it even, not wanting to increase Will’s unease by feeding it with any of his own, even pale as it was in comparison. Pale the way all of his emotions were, even compared to the average person, let alone Will.

“Feelings, maybe?” Will looked up again, determined now, and Hannibal made his eyes go wide for him.

“I think.” He spoke quietly, enunciating. “You may be projecting.”

“I… yeah. Maybe.” Will wiped both hands over his face.

“What is it you are trying to say, then?” Hannibal thought he understood, though he would be surprised if that were the case.

Will looked pained, as though he did not know how to approach his admission.

“I… lately, I find myself. Well, I keep thinking of… you. I think I’m… maybe attracted to you.” He rushed it out, as though if he didn’t say it now, it would never be said. Perhaps that was true. Hannibal did not have the time necessary to think on how to use this to his best advantage. Obviously if he played on Will’s crush, it would mean wrapping him around his finger would be all the easier, the final betrayal all the more cutting. Could it be a test? And of whose design? Not Will, surely—he knew he held Will’s trust in the palm of his hand. But Jack… Caution won out, this time.

“It is very natural, I think.” Hannibal informed him. “I represent stability to you, and you lack it elsewhere in your life. That becomes attractive.”

Will stared at him, some shift happening in his frozen face. He dropped his gaze to his hands, folded in his lap.

“Yeah, that… probably it.” He announced, punctuated by a humorless little chuckle. He pushed his hair back from his face and stood.

“Maybe it’s just someone else I’m looking for talking. I’m sure that’s it. I don’t… I don’t even like men that way.” He spread his hands, edging sideways towards the door, all nerves and embarrassment.

“Will?” Hannibal called out to him, all but forcing the man to stop. “There is nothing wrong with or untoward about your feelings. I just want you to see them for what they are—you are my friend, and I would not wish to see you uncomfortable or confused about this.”

“I don’t… know what that means.” Will said, then shook his head. “Anyway, I need to go. I’ll uh… see you next week. If not before.”

Hannibal let him leave, comfortable with how that had ended, if only for Will’s promise to see him soon.

He steepled his fingers.

He always gave himself time after Will’s sessions. He liked to savor them, roll them over in his mouth like good wine. 

Each visit brought subtle changes to the taste of Will Graham, the constant base of desperation and guilt often chased by frustration when he was on a case, fear, when he could not shake himself of the case afterward, and, occasionally, something more bitter, more earthy—something that would be a thrill of sorts, if it weren’t so mingled in the self loathing it caused. Skanaus.

He did wonder, though, what else he would find, if he were to actually take Will aside now and savor him. Was it really an attraction to stability? Was it because, between his urging and Will’s own antisocial behavior, he had developed rifts between himself and every other person close to him? Or was there real emotion there, a real opportunity to build on it, to play with it, to use it as just one more implement to drive into Will?

In his mind’s eye, Will was quickly becoming his very own Wound Man, but instead of pieces of metal and trails of blood, he was peppered with wounds made of emotional turmoil, mental agony, and Will’s growing dependence on him.

He thought perhaps he should call, talk to him, but not right away.

Let him stew in his exaggerated feelings a bit.

Everything tasted better after marinating.

-*-

“So where were we? Or did you have something you’d like to talk about, Mason?”

“Call me Mack. We were talking about my sister, and how she doesn’t squeak. And you know, I was thinking about it—I guess she does. Squeak I mean. It’s been a while since the last time she did, I guess she was six or seven…” He trailed off, a very put on look of pleasure on his face, his eyes darting to Hannibal almost comically. There was something very theatrical about the set up, and Hannibal knew that likely it was planned to be something shocking. Mason seemed to enjoy being objectionable. He stayed anticipatorily quiet. He obviously wanted to be encouraged to continue.

Weighing his options, Hannibal took the bait.

“What was it that caused her to ah, ‘squeak’?” He asked.

“Oh, you know, the usual. I was balls deep in her quim. You know, most of them, they just cry, they say stop—not Mags, though. She was a fighter. Clawed my arms up. Pretty nice change of pace, actually. I’d revisit her, if she wasn’t pumping iron these days.”

“So you do not care if the children are male or female, then? It says here that the charges were brought against you over a young male.” Not as young as his sister had been, though. He had quite a range, ages, genders, physical descriptions… which could mean any number of things.

“It’s not… really about the kids, except that they _are_ kids.” He shrugged, obviously not expecting Hannibal to understand.

“You enjoy the traumatization? The fear, the pain?” Hannibal prompted softly, his mind turned towards his favorite investigator.

“It hurts them. They’re too small, so they cry, some tear, and bleed, and that’s good, so good.” He started slow, a smirk settling on his face. “And then there’s the betrayal—I make friends with them, I’m so nice. Candy bars and laughing together, and then—bam. And over and over, bam bam bam… I like the sounds of it, you know? Screaming, crying, the slaps, sometimes wetter than others, the begging, the cursing, and it’s great when they call for their parents. Parents who don’t care about them, or can’t—too drugged up, too poor—whatever. They’ve never been around to care about them before, but these kids call out for them anyway. Or they call out for God. Same story, really.”

He spoke quicker now, not quite a frenzy, but definitely enjoying himself. His fingers were inching inwards on his thigh, and he was watching Hannibal closely for any sign of a reaction.

So he gave none.

“You enjoy inflicting pain, then. Physical pain, primarily?” He did not pretend to be taking notes. He did not need to. This was so very different than his usual case, so much more naked, so much darker.

He spoke to murderers. Like Abigail, like Will. Taking a life happened. Even his own unique brand of taking, repeatedly, quietly, and with purpose—it was nothing in comparison to this malicious destruction of lives. It would have been more merciful if Mason had killed them. And he knew it, too.

“All of it. Any kind of pain. Loss, confusion, betrayal… the blood and screams are nice, but it’s like… like cutting yourself. It hurts, then it heals, and it’s done. But burn yourself… the burn lasts, it swells and holds the heat, blisters, and the more you play with it, the deeper the hurt goes, and then it’s a scar that you have to look at every day for the rest of your life. It’s the aftermath I like the most. You hurt an adult, they bear the burden. You hurt a kid, you get a whole family. You get everyone that kid interacts with for the rest of their lives. You get their children. Their first date, wondering if the person they’re with can tell, if they just want to do the same thing. You get them to turn their face fearfully away from daddy, knowing he has the same weapon used to tear them up, hanging right between his legs.” His face, usually so pretty, so easy to look at, easily trusted by the children he hunted, twisted into something altogether ugly. And for the first time, Hannibal thought he might see just the smallest flicker of beauty there.

There was something beautiful in every grotesque thing, in some way. He usually found beauty in disgusting, disgraceful humans by transforming them into something beautiful on the plate, something perfect on the tongue.

Each mark he makes against them, each flaw, he hates them for. Loves them for.

Each thing they are lacking in is an invitation for him to make an improvement.

Rudeness in this one tastes of too much salt, and he needs to use something savory-sweet to compensate. Ginger, perhaps.

The perfect recipe, not only to correct the imperfections, but to enhance the good, because even if the personality had no redeeming factors, the flavor does.

Mason must have somehow sensed the faintest bit of stray approval, or at least seen something in Hannibal’s face that made him comfortable. His face returned to something approaching his usual mask, something that could almost pass as innocence.

“I do my very best to make sure I will _never_ be forgotten. I may be my father’s legacy, but long before that, I had my very own.”

“So I see.” Hannibal murmured, somewhat enthralled. Mason knew exactly what he was doing, knew it was wrong; _delighted_ in its wrongness. He knew the repercussions, and knew that they would not ever touch him.  He was, in his mind, immortal. He was Peter Pan. His father had seen to it that every problem Mason encountered had just disappeared. He would never be made to grow up, never truly be made accountable.

He was, it would seem, frozen at the peak of his mental development. If ever there were a time to end him, to preserve him, transform him, surely it was now?

And Hannibal was tempted.

But their hour was up.

“I really feel good about this, I feel like we’re kindred spirits, you know? I feel like—“ The earnest tone left his voice, and he got quiet, deep, almost like when he’d spoken of the reasoning behind his actions. “Like you _get_ me.”  Hannibal merely inclined his head, acknowledgement without agreeing.

“You should come over to _my_ place soon. I could show you some things that would just _blow your mind._ ” It came out as more of a proposition than an invitation, and the words came out as he opened the door to the small antechamber between his office and the hall.

“I think that would be terribly unprofessional of me.” He responded, eyes flicking away from his patient to look at the other figure behind him as he stood.

Hannibal had, of course, registered Will’s presence in the room the moment before he’d opened the door, but Mack had already been talking. It would have been rude to interrupt. Besides, Will was a grown man. He was in no danger from Mason’s attentions.

He thought.

-*-

He didn’t really mean to be here—he’d ‘woken up’ here, the same way he ‘woke up’ from every bout of lost time. And he’d decided to wait it out. He could hear muffled voices within—not enough to make out words, but enough to know that Hannibal wasn’t alone. Which meant another client. Which meant not to disturb him.

So Will had dozed as best as he could in the small chair and with his sleep deprivation, he may even have caught a few minutes. He woke up in a more traditional sense, as the door opened. Hannibal and the man who had been in the room with him walked into view, just in time for him to hear the guy’s offer to blow Hannibal’s mind.

He flushed, feeling like he shouldn’t be there, feeling jealous and possessive and unreasonable for feeling that way… and feeling foolish, too.

And then the guy had turned around.

He was tall, and suave looking, all expensive clothes that were worn well, and a face that would be at home in underwear ads.

Between him in his casual elegance and Hannibal in his suit, Will hadn’t felt this plain, this unkempt, in ages.

He swallowed, his eyes sliding away from both men.

“Well!” The not-Hannibal one said. “Aren’t you precious.”

“Will.” Hannibal’s voice had the tone of a reprimand to it. “You should be waiting on the other side, you know that.”

“And you aren’t going to introduce us? How rude, Doctor Lecter.” He took Will’s hand in both of his, all charm and exuberance. “I’m Mack, Mack Verger. Pleasure to make your acquaintance, Will.” He was smooth, too.

Will looked up at them. They looked good together, made sense, in a way.

“Yeah,” he muttered.

“Next time, Mason.” Hannibal instructed, and he sounded angry. Mack let go of Will’s hands.

“Yeah, alright.” He said, and his voice was soothing. Intimate. “Next time.” He gave Will a wink on his way out, and as the exterior door closed behind him, Hannibal let out a loud sigh, which reminded Will that he was annoyed with him.

“Sorry, I… I just woke up here. I didn’t mean--”

“Of course.” If Mack had been smooth, Hannibal was the next step up on that ladder. He was _gracious_. And he seemed more relaxed now that Mack was gone— probably because he didn’t want Will to know about the reason he was turning down his… now, unbelievably sloppy, utterly presumptuous affections.  He let Will in, then when the door was closed, he spoke again.

“I’m sorry, I was just… surprised to see you. That was terribly rude of me.”

“No, I… I’m sorry. I’ve been… not myself, lately. Saying things… I didn’t realize…” He gestured at the door they’d come in and let his voice taper off. It felt strange, talking to Hannibal now. Somehow stilted.

 “You’re fine, Will. Have you any idea how much time you’ve lost, this time?” Hannibal redirected the conversation easily. That made sense. He was a private guy, he didn’t mind being friends, but… Will had no right to ask for more than that. He shouldn’t have. He swallowed around the dry lump in his throat.

“It feels like someone is fast forwarding through my life. I’m at home, working on a rotor, and feeding the dogs, and then… I’m here.” He shrugged, helpless feelings piling one atop another and weighing down on his chest.

“And your nightmares, Will?” Hannibal asked gently. He was concerned. Will’s eyes skittered up to steal a look at him, then down to his lap again. It really did feel like stealing now, which twisted him up a bit. He was suddenly very aware that the time he spent in this office was just rented. But what about outside of it? That night at Lecter’s home—where had Mack been then?

“I went for days without having them… but they started up again recently.” Stopped the day he nursed Hannibal through the night. Started up again the day Hannibal had turned him down.

He stood suddenly, needing to be moving, hoping that being vertical would take the pressure off of his lungs. But emotions, and the burden that came with them, seemed not to be subjected to gravity.

“Will?” He pretended not to hear, his grip on himself tenuous and making him feel disoriented. Part of him, the part that had spent all of yesterday in the labs, watching as his coworkers dismantled the latest person he had imagined himself killing, wanted nothing but to rip Hannibal up. Make him pay for making him feel this doubt—Hannibal had never made him doubt himself before; he was stability, as he said, and that was what attracted him, wasn’t it? But then why, when Hannibal wasn’t stabilizing, was he still attracted? His pacing had taken him to stand before the bronze stag again, the one Hannibal had used to end Tobias Budge’s life. He found himself sneering at it.

“William.” Hannibal was more insistent this time, and he turned without thinking, his distress at being suddenly jerked back to himself doubling at the fact that Hannibal had raised his voice at him. He felt like he was on a hair trigger.

He hadn’t heard him stand, or move around the desk. But when he spun, Hannibal was right behind him, his hand outstretched to steady Will. He jerked back, an automatic reaction, and immediately regretted it when Hannibal frowned.

“Will, you have put me at such a distance. Why? What have I done?” Hannibal was… hurt? Had he hurt him? …of course he had. Because he’d now managed to imply that his friendship wasn’t enough, and not even wanted. That if he couldn’t have him as a—what? Partner? Lover? Then he didn’t want him at all? No.

“Not you. I just… you know how I get, how I…” he rubbed his forehead. “I thought maybe you were right, maybe I just… I see you so put together all the time, and I want to be you, so I turned that into… it doesn’t feel like that, but. Anyway, I was just. I wanted to keep myself from… from making you uncomfortable.”

“Will.” Compassion. Sympathy. It put his guards up even higher.

“Don’t condescend at me. Look, I’m.. I shouldn’t be here, I guess. I didn’t realize I was just the latest in a line of… of fucked up people making stupid offers. I should have realized by the stock response—how often do you get that? And how often do you accept? At least Mack looks the part.” The words snapped out of him like a whip, and he didn’t know how to take them back.

Hannibal pursed his lips.

“Will, you are not Mason, you do not need to look like Mason.  I do not make a habit of comparing my patients. And you are not undeserving of affections, particularly not mine. I have not forgotten who it was that helped me through my illness…” He sighed. “I do not want to see you hurt over this…and anything more than friendship between us would be terribly unprofessional. What would Jack say, do you think? And who would he send you to, when it was clear I was no longer …” It was Hannibal’s turn to trail off, though he did so intentionally. 

It punched the air out of Will’s lungs.

“You aren’t…” he didn’t know how to end the sentence. Disgusted? Angry? Annoyed? Disappointed? Straight? He had just assumed, he supposed… well. Dr. Lecter treated everyone the same, but he dressed so nicely, and he… well he gave off masculinity, but he didn’t seem like he necessarily needed to. He wasn’t afraid of not being seen as macho. Had he assumed Hannibal was gay?

He didn’t know.  The confusion must have shown on his face.

“Go home, Will. Get some sleep. Take some time to come back to you, to get all the pieces of the latest killer out of your head. We can talk about this, but I want you to be fully you when we do.” His stomach had been twining itself into knots, twisting up and turning itself inside out, and suddenly it all released, and instead of a gaping hole, there was a pathetic little bubble of hope. Hope and respect.

 _He takes such good care of me_ , he thought to himself _. And I can take care of him. I managed not to have breakdowns when he needed me, when I felt important to him I didn’t have any issues at all. Maybe… maybe once I’m stable… maybe he’ll be why I’m stable…_

But another voice, the one that sounded like Hobbs, spoke up, _and what happens the first time you aren’t? What will you do to him? And besides—he has someone already._

The thought was bitter. He shook it off.

“Hannibal, I… wanted to say thank you. For this. For everything. I don’t…” he searched for words that would explain, but that wouldn’t be too strong. “I don’t know what I would do without you.”

“Then perhaps it is fortunate for us that you will not need to find out.” Hannibal surely meant it to be soothing… but it had the opposite effect. The panic rose up in Will again, and he wanted to grab double fistfuls of his lapels, wanted to stare straight into his eyes, unwavering, unblinking, and beg him not to leave him, not to send him away.

He nodded, instead, keeping himself in check. These were not healthy urges. And he needed to be more mindful of the fact that he could—just Will telling him about that kind of attraction was grounds for him being shuffled off on some other shrink.

“Alright. I’ll, yeah.” Somehow, he felt more lost than when he came in.

When he left the waiting room and went into the hall, he found Mack there.

He was leaning against a wall, smoking indoors, despite the signs plastered around the place requesting otherwise.

He looked as surprised to see Will as Will felt to see him.

He didn’t say anything, just nodded jerkily and turned towards the exit.

“That was significantly less than an hour. You see him pretty often, I guess, then?” Mack didn’t seem to have hurried in his catching up with him. Then again, he seemed to walk in long, smooth strides, and his legs were much longer than Will’s.

Will shrugged noncommittally.

“Shame he’s got a stick up his ass about professionalism.” Mack offered, clearly having realized that if he didn’t pull out his big guns, he would lose Will.

Will stopped in his tracks, flabbergasted and a little appalled. Everything about Dr. Lecter seemed to command respect, how could he be with someone who seemed to be such a fan of casual rudeness?

“Were you listening in on me?” He asked, bristling.

“Didn’t need to. He wants you—did you see how he got when I so much as complimented you? So protective, possessive… that’s how I knew he’d be a great lover. Too bad, though, that he doesn’t see you that way, not just yet. Too busy fixing whatever’s wrong with your head.” Mack had slinked closer to him while he spoke, and now he leaned in, breath hitting Will’s face while he searched Will’s eyes for… something. Will looked away.

“What is it that’s so special about you? He loves whatever’s in there, doesn’t he? Your problems are something special. What’s wrong with you?”

“Unstable.” Will murmured, caught up in how similar Mack’s speech pattern was to Hannibal’s, when he got to asking questions, but how much more blatantly sexual he was.  No wonder Hannibal liked him.

“Unstable because why? Something bad happen to you once? Did you have an exceptionally bad day? Did someone touch you in the naughties when you were a kiddie?” He asked, and Will blanched, got his bearings and tore himself away from where Mason was starting to box him in against a wall.

“None of your business.” He all but growled.

“Don’t be angry with me; I know his tricks, too, you know. I’m just curious what makes you think you deserve him.” Mason ran a critical eye down Will’s form, and Will blanched.

“I d-I’m not--. _Are you jealous of me?_ ” He asked it incredulously, realizing. He was torn between wanting to be swallowed up by the ground, and wanting to laugh. Why should Mack be jealous? It seemed he was mostly whole, put together, polished… and he had Doctor Lecter. Will was falling apart and had dogs.

“Let me take you out to lunch. We’ll trade stories about Hannibutt, and I’ll help you pick out some new clothes, for when you go after him. Because you should, you know. Don’t let him get away with this ‘it wouldn’t be professional’ stuff. That’s the excuse he uses on me, and it never works.”

Will swallowed, remembering exactly why Hannibal had used that phrase. Were they… casual lovers? An open relationship? Did Mack _want_ him to become the other man?  It made ugly feelings swell in him, and he pushed them down, the same way he pushed down bile when he resurfaced at a crime scene.

“Oh. So you—but…” He couldn’t get the words out, but he was morbidly interested, curious even. “I… could eat, I guess.” He didn’t like spending time with people, wasn’t at all sure about this—but even he had to admit that the guy had something about him, something that made him make sense next to Hannibal. Maybe, by just watching him, interacting with him a little, Will could pick it up. He had to be able to use his empathy on people who didn’t routinely tear people up, right? Use it for himself? Besides, he’d been more social lately, hadn’t he? Maybe this was the next logical step.

Stable people went out for lunch.

“Excellent. You mind driving? I can have my car pick me up when we’re through.”

“I—yeah, uh, if you don’t mind dog hair…”

“No, of course not. I spend a lot of time volunteering at the pound. Love dogs. Have some back at my house, in fact, a little pack of them. What sort do you have?”

He blinked at how easily conversation seemed to flow after that. Mack and he seemed to see eye to eye on a lot of things, or at least Mack agreed with him on a lot of things, which, as he knew, wasn’t necessarily the same; some of his students tried the same tack in their papers to get him to give them better grades.

Still, he found that he felt like he got on well with Mack.

Lunch was nice—neither of them needed anything too fancy, but it sure as hell wasn’t Denny’s. Just a little café, and then into the store Mack recommended for a nice blazer, which he assured Will would be a good start to upgrading his wardrobe.  

But while trying it on in front of the mirror, Will found himself sliding, almost out of himself, and he had the space of half a second to wonder if that warning usually happened, and if he would remember it, when he felt a sharp, grounding pain in his arm.

Adrenaline surged and his eyes snapped open.

“Wha—“ He turned wide eyes on Mack, who was holding him up by his shoulder.

“You looked like you were about to have some kind of a fit. Sorry, I—was I wrong? Just, I’ve worked with kids who had that kind of problem before, you know?”

“No I think—thank you? What, ah, what do you do? I didn’t really ask.”

“I’m a camp counselor, for the time being. My father owns a camp for children from troubled homes. Something like a pound, but for kids instead of dogs.” He grinned, turning the statement more gentle than the words were.  

“And you… pinch them?” Will realized that sounded stupid and accusatory the second it came out of his mouth. Fortunately, Mack just laughed. “Sorry, that came out wrong. I just… yeah.”

“If you want, you can come back to my place. I’ll teach you some other tricks I use on the kids to keep them… in the moment. Seems like you could use it.” Mack smiled at him winningly, and it struck him how much Mack just seemed like the more complete version of himself.

“I…” Will’s mouth went dry and his thoughts went immediately to Doctor Lecter. “I should be getting back, actually. I need to feed my dogs.” Unlike Doctor Lecter, Mack actually did look put out. He pouted almost comically for a moment, then reached out and brushed at Will’s hair.

“Maybe next time, then.” He muttered. “Would you at least wait with me until the car gets here? I’ll buy you a coffee.” He said it in a wheedling tone.

“Do you usually have to bribe people into spending time with you?” The words came out before Will could stop them, and, just for a moment, he saw the surprise register on Mack’s face, followed by a look of pain, and for the first time that day it was Mack who broke eye contact by looking away. He cursed his own lack of filters, his social ineptitude.

“Sorry.” He said quietly. “I’m not—that was rude.”

“It’s fine. Don’t mention it.” Mack waved off the apology.

Will floundered for a second, then awkwardly offered, “So, uh, coffee then?” Like some form of peace treaty.

Will volunteered to wait for their orders while Mack got them a table—all of the ones inside the coffee shop were taken, so they would be sitting outside, and that was fine given the relative comfort of the weather.

But he was surprised when he came out to deliver them, to find Mason leaning over the rail, his hand on top of Dr. Lecter’s, looking altogether intimate.

“Will.” Doctor Lecter sounded surprised, and pulled his hand back from Mason’s grasp immediately— _guilt_ , Will’s brain supplied. _Wanting to hide something._

His gaze shifted to Mack’s face, taking in the narrowed eyes and pursed lips before Mack saw him looking and gave him a grin.

“Doctor Lecter—we were just about to have some coffee, would you like to join us?” He could see the way Hannibal’s eyes swung back and forth between them, how, when he sat, Mack rearranged himself to lean closer to Will, though his body faced Hannibal. If Will had been in Hannibal’s shoes, he would have read ‘affair’ in the way Mack sat. which made him all but vibrate with discomfort. He wondered if Mack knew, or if he was doing it on purpose. Was he trying to make Hannibal angry at him? But Hannibal didn’t look angry, didn’t look… jealous. And he was looking mostly at Will, checking him over like he was looking for something, but not at his—was boyfriend the right word? It didn’t feel like it.

Whatever they were, were they… trying to talk him into a threesome?

Deciding that was likely the dumbest idea he had had, (and probably the work of remnants of one killer or another—he didn’t think he could be that stupid on his own) he rejected it.

If just Hannibal didn’t want him, how could he think both of them would? Ridiculous.

“That would be quite pleasant, Will. Would you mind placing my order for me? I need to make a scheduling call, and you know how I take my coffee.” Hannibal offered him a ten dollar bill from his bill fold, but Will put his hand up, palm out, and shook his head.

“Please, I’ll get it. My treat.”

Hannibal inclined his head, and Will turned away.

Will had never seen Hannibal actually drink coffee that had been prepared anywhere save his own kitchen, but he did know what went into it there; in theory he could place the man’s order.

Part of him was certain he was being sent away so that Hannibal and Mack could have a moment to themselves, but the part of him that was eager to prove to Hannibal that he was as stable and reliable as humanly possible—or at least, as possible for him—was elated at the chance to show off in front of Mack. The part of him that was eager to please won.

-*-

“I don’t know if you had noticed,” He spoke lowly and sibilantly, emotions much deeper than he was accustomed to welling in his veins, “But William is not a child.”

“No, he isn’t. Which means that when I get him to consent to anything I want to do to him, it’ll hold up just fine in court. And, I don’t know if _you_ had noticed, but neither am I. Sign the paperwork, Doctor Lecter, and I will have my coffee and disappear from Will’s life.”

“I won’t do that. You know better than that, Mason.” Hannibal didn’t compromise. Especially when he had such a good record of convincing patients such as Mack, once he’d sufficiently wormed his way into their heads, to sign over everything from bank accounts to land holdings to him. Not even with Will on the line. Perhaps especially with Will on the line—this would go his way, and only his way, and his way would require patience, time and, of course, money. Will and his slow descent into madness had to be _perfect_. He’d planned it, coordinated it from the start, and with each passing day his plans only cemented, only became more grand. As far as the foreseeable future, Will Graham would be the Chesapeake Ripper’s first _real_ masterpiece.

“Then come to my place. Just for a nightcap. It’ll be nice.” He didn’t sound in the least bit desperate, and that was what angered Hannibal the most, he thought. Though this was not the strong anger of a few moments ago—it was the sort of mild annoyance that ended with a man drained, butchered, and marinating in his refrigerator in oils and vinegar. He eyed the way Mack was fidgeting with the two cups on the table, running his fingers around them, pouring—sugar? Likely—into one. For some reason when Will fidgeted it was charming. This just seemed like languid insolence.

“When?” He asked, already thinking of what he might do to this upstart. Not kill him, not yet—not until he had wrung the man dry of assets—but to begin the process of bending him to Hannibal’s will.

Will returned then, and inwardly, Hannibal grimaced.

“Shall we say… eight? Eight o’clock, my place?” Mack batted his eyes, voice all but dripping with intent, and Hannibal had to hand it to him—he knew what he was doing as far as manipulating the situation. It was little wonder, the success he had with children.

He chanced a look at Will, whose face was lightly flushed and his eyes vaguely wild, as though he felt he oughtn’t be there. His stance, shoulders hunched forward, eyes carefully averted from either face, was an unspoken apology. But it wasn’t just that—he was also… defeated? Dejected?

Hannibal smiled, pleased. Will had made exactly the assumption that Mack had wanted him to. Well, they could both benefit from this.

“Eight would be lovely.” Hannibal inclined his head graciously towards the lounging brat and held his hand out towards Will.

Will stared at it for a moment, clearly confused. Hannibal rarely initiated contact with him, aware of how uncomfortable it made him. He had actually hurt his feelings at one time, refusing a hand in rising out of deference to Will’s genuine dislike of contact.

But Will began reaching for him with his left hand before recalling that he had a cup of coffee for Hannibal in his right.

He cleared his throat, probably feeling all too keenly the social faux pas that he thought he had committed.

Hannibal hid his mouth behind the rim of the cardboard mug, hiding the smirk that threatened to twist his lips until it was ended by his wincing as the liquid within carried the taste of the container across his tongue.

“Perfect.” He lied. “Thank you, Will. Sadly, I was unable to cancel my appointment—likely she is already on her way. But I will see both of you at some other time.” He gave a small nod to Will and a glare to Mack, though he angled himself so that Will might not pick it up.

He thought he might purchase a few things before his visit at Mason’s, that evening.

-*-

“Like I said. Don’t let him get away with the ‘unprofessional’ excuse.” Mack said conversationally. Will’s eyes were hard—he’d withdrawn into himself again, further even than he had been when they first met. He’d gone back to the person he was on a case.

“Right, well, I’ll take it under advisement.” He turned away to go, and Mason stood, handing Will back his coffee.

“Please don’t be mad. Look, let me teach you some of those tricks we talked about earlier.” He sounded like he was wheedling. “Stay, have your coffee, keep me company until my car comes. I’d be willing to bet he calls you tomorrow. I’m good at knowing what people want, and making them see it.”

“You get that from helping kids, too?” Will asked, still gruff. He took a good sized swallow of his coffee, though, annoyed that the flavor seemed to have changed as it cooled. He sat heavily, suddenly tired out. Probably it was the company, all of the surprises—and he really hadn’t been sleeping all that much, lately.

“I help kids exactly the way I intend to help you. No worries.” Mack reached out and patted his hand, where it lay on the table, and he went to jerk it away, but his head had gone foggy and his hand had gone unresponsive. Instead he ended up just looking down at where their hands were touching, his vision swimming while Mack stroked the back of his palm.

“That’s my good boy. Have another drink. Here, let me help you…” He lifted the cup to Will’s mouth and he swallowed obediently, his mind struggling against the confining fog.

“What—“ He gasped out when the cup had been taken away.

“Narcozep. Sorry it’s a bit strong—you never know what some of these damn kids are on these days. You would _not believe_ the drug tolerance of some twelve year olds.” Mack clucked his tongue, disappointed.

“Wh—“

“And look, what timing, the car is here. And, Mister Graham, you aren’t looking so steady on your feet. Let me help you.” He was speaking evenly, but he was taunting him, almost but not quite succeeding in mimicking Hannibal’s accent.

Will tried to fight back, struggled with his suddenly disobedient feet, and only succeeded in falling sideways into the waiting car.

A couple of teenaged girls exiting the coffee shop tittered, and as Mason closed the car door, he could hear him saying,

“Now, kids, alcoholism is no laughing matter…”

And then he felt himself slipping away—drugs, lost time, he didn’t know, couldn’t rationalize. He fought—and thanks to his body’s familiarity with various sleep aids, maybe he was more successful than Mason expected. He could register the turns of the car, the bumps in the road. He was aware of the hands removing his glasses, of the fingers stroking the side of his face, his hair…

The car stopped, there was a motor noise—garage door--and he heard voices, then the driver got out, opened the door he was partially slumped against, and lifted him bodily. He drifted somewhat, but when he was taken into the house, he was sat up in a chair, and he slumped into it but didn’t fall out, which, had he been capable of keeping score, he would have counted as a personal win.

He could hear the sounds of the driver asking something, asking if Mack was okay to be left alone with Will. Mack paying him off. Heard the sounds of the driver leaving. Heard Mack walking away.

His head lolled on his neck and he tried to look around the place, look for a way out. A phone. He should call someone. Hannibal. If he knew… did he know? He was supposed to be coming over at eight. That couldn’t be all that far off now. Was this something they had agreed upon?

Hannibal wouldn’t… but that he would deal with later. He needed adrenaline, something to help fight down the drug. Something to get his leg—there, his foot was moving!

He was too busy trying to force himself to focus on standing up, too busy trying to get his muscles to respond; he didn’t hear Mack come back, didn’t even register that he was in the room until his head was being lifted by his hair. His eyelids fluttered against his will, and through the blur of his eyes refusing to focus, he still could make out Mack’s face, including the delighted smile he wore on it.

“Not bad—at this point, I usually have to force them to puke to get them this awake. Then again, you are a little bigger than my usual… Hey there, Will, pay attention!”

He heard fingers snapping in front of his face, and his eyes slid back open, slowly.

When he saw the rope in Mack’s hands, he lunged to his feet, terror providing that tiny extra push that he needed—but it wasn’t enough. Mack just laughed, put a hand on his shoulder, and pushed him back into the chair. Softly. Mockingly.  He draped the rope around the back of his neck, and Will’s eyes caught on it.

 _Tie him up, get away… if only I could move…_ but the thoughts were doing nothing but making him sick, giving him a quiet echo of the thrill he got at crime scenes by being those men… But he became aware that Mason was watching him.

“You know Will, I think I know what your problem is. You think too much—you think about too many things. You need to learn to focus, to be _present_ in the moment, as it were. I already showed you a little of the first trick for that—pain. Now here, let’s just fold this down…”

He pushed a curtain back, exposing some boards that were on hinges and which folded up to sit nearly flush with the wall. He unlocked them and swung them downwards, outwards, upwards—and then locked them, until the protruded a good three feet from their starting place. They looked like something between a crucifixion cross and a set of stocks, with arm holes on the cross beam.

He came back to Will, whose eyes were wide and he was trying desperately to shake his head no. But he was lifted, guided into place as though he weighed little more than a doll, or a child. The ropes came out to bind his feet, and his hands were latched in place.

“Now, here’s something I would be willing to bet you haven’t tried before…” He couldn’t see what it was, with his forehead pressed against the vertical plank of the cross, but he turned his head to the side, cheekbone thudding painfully against the wood.

Mack trailed the entwined leather of the whip across the back of his shoulder blade, then stepped back and allowed it to unfurl with a dramatic flourish.

“Try not to hide in your head, okay? I would hate to have to hit you harder just to draw you out.” The smile on Mack’s face told a very different story, however, and he lifted his arm and snapped it down, so that a searing hot swirling line of pain spread across Will’s lower back.

He cried out, and Mack _giggled._

“Oh, sweetie, that’s it. Sing for me.” This time, it seemed like he barely twitched his hand, but the sting was sharper, more severe. It wrapped across Will’s ass and down the side of his leg, and was followed rapidly by two diagonal stroked, making a rough X on his butt.

“Nnnn..” He tried to beg, but he couldn’t get the word out before the next stroke fell, and it was turned into a growled guttural.

He was right though—it did make him focus. It burned, and it hurt, and he didn’t like not knowing where it was going to fall next, didn’t like the unpredictability of Mack’s movements.

But he liked how sharp his mind was in these moments, even through the dulling haze of the drugs in his system. And he thought he might even like the red fog that was rolling into his mind, if he could just know who was behind it… but that was a dangerous line of thought, maybe not even his own.

After ten or so—he couldn’t count in this state—Mack stopped, and Will was left, shaking, unsure how he was holding his own weight. He thought that was it, that it was done, but then soft, warm hands—too warm for the welts that had formed across his back and ass—began caressing him. He flinched from the touch the same as, if not more than, he had been flinching from the blows.

Mack tsked.

“And how do you expect to ever do anything for Hannibal if you can’t even stand to be touched? He has needs, Will. And, judging by how uptight he is, they are probably very strong ones. But I’ll help you. Let’s see—maybe it would be easier if you narrowed your focus to just one thing…And I have just the thing to help with that. No, no, don’t get up!”

He walked across the room to a closet and pulled out what looked like a massage table and a …tent?

The table was set up first, unhurriedly, and then came the tent poles—which assembled to make a rectangle. The fabric that he’d mistaken for a tent was stretched around it… vinyl? Latex? He didn’t know. The sort of fabric that was on mannequins in adult stores the world over. His head wasn’t nodding anymore, and he was forcing his eyes wide open, just the act of not letting them droop shut a feat in itself.

“Here we are Will. I’ve made you a nice comfortable bed to lay in. Let me just plug this in, and get your sleeping mask…”

He didn’t like the idea of what Mack thought he’d do to him, and he didn’t think that the aching burn across his back would feel good with anything on it, but a bed sounded perfect. It had to be almost eight—he wouldn’t have much time before Hannibal got here—Hannibal wouldn’t let anything truly awful happen…

Mack came back with some kind of black box with a dial on it. He plugged it into a socket in the wall, then put a tube in the other end, and the end of the tube screwed in to a port at the foot of the bed, in the fabric there.

He pulled apart something else, and put another tube through a port from the inside, near the head of the bed, and then he came and got Will.

“Thatta boy, look at you, so cooperative. Hannibal must love that about you. Have you shown him this side of you yet? Or do you have to be drugged for it to happen? Hang on..” He propped Will against the wall, near the table, and slid a gas mask on over his head. Then he pulled back the top sheet of fabric, plasticy, stretchy stuff, and pushed Will backwards against it, til the table hit his thighs and he found himself sitting.

“Good.” Mack praised, petting his curls through the strap on the top of the gas mask.

“’nnibal…” He managed to mutter it, not even really able to speak without the mask on, let alone with it.

“Yes, he’ll be along shortly, don’t you worry.” Like a trained nurse, he bent and grabbed his ankles, swinging them up and forcing Will to lay back on the bed top. Will winced and moaned into the mask as his weight came to rest on his back, making it burn and sting, to the point of bringing tears to his eyes. He pulled him further down, and positioned him carefully on the lower sheet of latex, making sure all of him was within the frame of pipes.

He stood back to survey him for a moment, and Wills breaths in his ears were loud, the thick glass or plastic of the gas mask eyes fogging up with every breath and distorting the world.

“You are a pretty little thing, aren’t you? And according to Freddie Lounds, you have a magical gift of feeling too much. So… I think I’d like to test that. You don’t think Hannibal would be cross with me for it, do you?”

He didn’t really wait for an answer, just leaned down and laved his tongue over Will’s dick, lifting it with his hand and wrapping a hand around it so that he could bob his head, swallowing Will down with the ease of years of constant practice.

Will could feel Mack’s mouth pulsing around him, and he shook a little as his bloodflow changed course and made a beeline his steadily thickening cock.

Mack pulled off, his hand twisting around and spreading the slickness from his mouth downwards.

“So you empathize, do you? You feel everything you feel, but do you feel what I’m feeling too? The rush of power, the thrill of control? Do you feel my need to own every part of you, to ruin you for everyone else? Oh yes, especially dear Doctor Lecter… what will he think of you after this, hmm?”

He dropped his mouth back onto Will’s cock while Will’s hands moved down to grasp at the sleek hair against Mack’s skull. But he couldn’t get his hands to close, couldn’t pull him off, and so he ended up with his hands resting there limply, as though urging him on.

Mack had to take his mouth away to laugh, until he caught sight of his watch.

“Oh dear, I don’t think Hannibal is the kind to be late, is he? No, we’d better get you all wrapped up before he gets here.” He readjusted Will, having to fight him a little as he moved his arms and legs in short, abortive motions, trying to get free.

He managed to get him covered up, and screwed the breathing hose into the mask, before sealing off the sheet.

Will panicked, his breathing going shallow and quick while silvery fabric became all he was aware of. He could see through it, vaguely, see the bright spots of the lights on the ceiling, and the dark of Mason leaning over the bed to secure everything.

He let out a thin whining noise, and was answered by Mason’s slightly muffled laugh. Then the shadow moved away, and he heard a few muted clicks, and then a hum.

The sensation that followed was not unlike laying in a bathtub, and letting the water drain out around you. It moved quickly, though, and instead of relaxing him, the way unplugging a bath would, the fabric tightened, and he realized just how trapped he was.

He began to cry, certain he was suffocating, sure his head would pulse apart from his heard pounding so hard in his ears. His sensitive, mostly erect penis was encased by the vinyl and pressed against his stomach. He tried to move his hands, hoping to gain precious space but he couldn’t—the vinyl provided no slide. It was stuck together, and his efforts cost him in the form of pain from his back. He wondered idly if he could still bleed, without any form of air exchange. He tried twisting, and that was when the first slap fell, directly on his cock. He yelped and the sound was choked off by his tears, which then turned into hyperventilating. He needed air, needed to be able to fill his lungs, but it was pressing down on him, wouldn’t let him—

“Remember what I told you about focusing?” Mack spoke loudly and clearly to be sure he could hear. He tried to nod, hoping that agreement would mean his release. Anything had to be better than this.

Mack smacked at the soles of his feet with something—something long and stiff—the handle of the whip? It didn’t matter—it hurt.

“Now, you be a good boy. I have to go change for our guest.” Mason spoke directly into his ear, more or less, and he was shaking, every muscle in his body tensed to the point of pain.

And then Mack just… walked away.

For a moment that was alright, but he was slowly regaining his faculties and… oh god what if he’d been forgotten here? What if Mack left, made arrangements to meet Hannibal elsewhere? What if…

But then the shadow came back, and brought with it new sensation. Stabs of freezing cold were traced up his belly, ice being pushed up his skin.

He was incapable of responding with more than a squeak.

And then the doorbell rang.

“Playtime!” Mack called out in an almost sing song voice. He gave Will’s cock an affectionate pat through the vinyl, then scampered off.

-*-

He felt good about tonight, felt as though he was going to make a goodly amount of progress when it came to the patient quickly becoming his least favorite pain in his side.

The house was about what he expected. Lavish, but small, in an expensive part of town without too many neighbors, too close. Ideal both for Mason’s normal use of it, and for the uses he planned to make of it this evening.

He climbed the stairs of the stoop, and pressed the doorbell with his knuckle. No prints, just in case things got out of hand.

Mason answered the door in leather shorts that left nothing to the imagination. Good leather at that, probably buttery soft and supple—fitting him like a second skin. His shirt, in contrast, was milk white and loose, open nearly to his navel. He looked like the hero of a dime store romance novel, and was no doubt equally intelligent. For all his wealth and all of his airs, Mason Verger was nothing but an idiot punk.

“Good evening, Mason.” He was polite, distant, careful not to react to the appearance of his patient.

“Evenin’, Hannibal. Come on inside—let me take you upstairs, introduce you to the dogs, so they don’t make a ruckus.” He closed the door behind Hannibal as he entered, and Hannibal shook off his coat and hung it from one of the hooks by the door.

“This way. And if you have any questions, feel free to ask me _anything._ ” He winked salaciously, then started up the stairs, turning to make sure Hannibal followed.

“These two I picked up from the shelter that I do my community service hours at.” Mack explained. “They’re friends—were raised together and left at the pound together.”

“There is no food in their cage?” Hannibal asked, noting the dogs’ hungry forms, the way he could all but count the ribs on their sides.

“I’m excited to see what happens, how long it takes them to realize that the other one is made of food.”  Mack gave him the smile that he’d had in the office, talking about hurting people.

“Cannibalism is something that interests you?”

“Making something hurt something they care about interests me.” Mason returned the volley. Hannibal just nodded.

Mason flitted around like he was bursting to say something, but he kept stopping himself just short. Finally, he went to his chest of drawers and withdrew a pre rolled blunt.

“You want some?” He asked, offering the unlit thing towards Hannibal. He shook his head, keeping his hands in his pockets.

“Not at all, thank you, but please, don’t abstain for my sake.” Let him, he thought. That, on top of everything else, would keep him down for a good little while. Would do nothing but make his job easier.

He lit up and took a few hits as he wandered around this room, showing Hannibal various contraptions for sex and/or pain.

“And now~” He sang out, “The piece de resistance! Follow me.” He led Hannibal back downstairs, and into what would be the den in any other house. In one quick motion, he vaulted up onto a writhing silver mass on the table, straddling it.

He began palming himself between the legs, making it clear that he had been growing harder as he spoke to Hannibal.

“This is called a vac rack. It keeps naughty children firmly in place.” He demonstrated by dipping his hips, rubbing his clothed cock over the obvious bulge of the restrained boy’s answering hard on.

The body in the vacuum table seemed so small where it sat between Mason’s thighs. Mack ground himself in a circle, and the boy inside made small whimpering grunts into the mask he wore. Mason pulled an ice cube from a small bowl on the chair next to him, and rubbed it over the boy’s nipple, making him flinch. The boy let out a broken sound, like a half formed sob, and Hannibal had a subtle sinking feeling of understanding.

“Are you attempting to make me an accessory to statutory rape, Mason? I promise that would be a foolish move on your part.”

“Oh no, Doctor Lecter. As you so kindly pointed out, he is quite legal.” Mason flashed him a smirk and pushed a rubber stopper into the hole over the man’s face, blocking off his air. Almost instantly, the man began twitching, thrashing, trying to move his hands up to his face, trying to fight his way free, but it was impossible. Mason could easily kill someone this way, with very little effort. Hannibal would have tried to wonder if he had, if he weren’t distracted by Mason’s words.

“Mason.” His voice was foreboding, dark and filled with mal-intent. “That isn’t Will Graham in there, is it?”

“Why, so it is! I couldn’t help myself. See, this little stray followed me home…” He thrust his hips again, grinding his erection down on top of Will’s. “And I did promise to teach him tricks about how to narrow his awareness. This just seemed like the perfect teaching tool. What do you think? Would you like a try?”

Without hesitation, Hannibal unstopped the mask and pinched Mason’s neck in one hand, the web of his thumb cradling his airway, so as not to crush it while he cut off blood flow to his brain.

Mason bucked wildly, not trying to resist at all, a vapid smile on his face. He bucked his hips even more wildly and didn’t even try to resist Hannibal’s grip, obviously mistaking him for playing along. Hannibal could smell when he came, and shortly thereafter could feel the change when he passed out. He shifted his grip on his neck and stepped aside, casually flinging him off of Will. 

“William. Give me a moment to figure out the mechanics of this, and I will have you out of there.” Will’s breathing was heavy and labored. He was in a state of panic, as would only be natural. Still, he worried that this would be the hairline fracture that caused his brilliant mind to shatter, and what a waste that would be.

He kicked at Mason’s unconscious body as he stepped around him, and he moved to the foot of the table. The dials on the box were turned up to high, so he released them using his pocket square to keep from accidentally leaving Mason something to use against him, and all at once air began to flow back into the framework.

The moment he could move his hands, Will began clawing at it, trying to pull free.

Hannibal helped him, peeling back the material and likely destroying it in the process.

The moment he could see it, he grabbed the top of the gas mask and tipped t off of Will’s face.

Will surged up and out of the ‘bed’ and nearly fell down, crying out as he went. Hannibal caught him, more mindful than ever about Will’s discomfort with touching, but that didn’t seem to matter. Will plastered himself to the front of Hannibal, obviously afraid to let go.

Hannibal brought his arm around to hold Will to him, aware this may be his only chance to do so in a long time, but the motion made Will whimper and arch his back to get away from his arm.

At first, he battled with feelings of rejection, until he leaned in and looked down.

Hannibal could not control the gasp that escaped at the sight of the cherried welts, dancing in swirls across Will’s skin. And as a mark of how truly terrible his mind was, his first thought was to critique Mason’s handling of a whip, the second was to brush his hand over the naked, tender, inflamed skin.

“Hannibal—did you…” Will was loopy, either from fear or drugs, and, judging by his pin sized pupils, he would bet on the latter.

“Did I?” He prompted. “Kill Mason? No. He is merely unconscious.” He looked down at the floor, no longer even trying to hide the disdain he felt towards the man in question.

“You didn’t… didn’t know. That he would bring me here. Do this.” It wasn’t really a question, but Hannibal was surprised and dismayed anyway.

“You could hardly think worse of me, Will! No, I did not. I could not say anything, because of confidentiality, but I was under the impression that he limited his acts of cruelty to very young children. I had thought you safe, though I did not expect that you would go out of your way to spend time with him.”

Here Will turned his gaze downward and muttered something indistinguishable.

“What was that?” Hannibal asked, even his keen ears useless against Will’s bashfulness.

“I said, I thought you were… involved.” He choked out the last word, obviously having chosen it above several others. Hannibal wanted to laugh, but refrained.

“So you thought you should be close to him, as you are close to me? Because you thought we were romantic partners?” Will nodded his head miserably.

“I’m sorry. I knew—you like being private, and even if you were dating, I shouldn’t have--” The self blame had already begun. Hannibal found himself stirring with the beginnings of arousal. He clamped down on them with the iron fist of his will power, and rubbed Will’s head.

“Shhh, shh. My poor Will. Let us get you dressed and into the car, then I will see to Mason, and then we will get you away from this place. Yes?”

“Thank you.” Will’s voice was so dripping with emotional hurt and gratitude that Hannibal had to adjust himself, under the guise of bending to check Mason’s pulse.

Will took his time getting dressed, tears pouring silently as he dragged the fabric of the clothing across his new welts. He had to go slowly, too, because he was unstable on his feet, and had to support himself with one hand on the chair back. Seeing him this way, without his clothes, it was easy to see how thin Will was, and Hannibal remembered how he had mistaken his form for that of a young man, because of its size. He was struck with an urge to feed him, though he knew that should not be his priority now.

“I would be happy to dress those at my house, unless you would like to go to the police about this.”

“And say what? That I was…. Was date raped, without any actual penetration?” Will let out a bitter little laugh. “I’d rather not waste their time. There are people out there not fortunate enough to have you in their lives to show up and rescue them.”

Hannibal inclined his head at that, secretly pleased that he would be allowed to dress Will’s hurts himself.

He hovered, not wanting to make Will feel any less capable by offering to help, but staying near enough that if he needed it, Hannibal was no more than a step away.

Finally he straightened up, grimacing as he did, and Hannibal offered him his arm, the way a gallant might to a lady on a night out.

“Let’s get you out of here and into my car. I will have to check and make sure Mason is seen to, and call his parole officer, but after that I will join you and take you back to my house. Sound good?”

Will nodded mutely.

The trip to the car was slow and painful, and if he hadn’t been worried about emasculating Will, he would have just carried him out bridal style. But, too, there were the welts to worry about.

Once he helped Will in, laying him out across the back seat in some semblance of comfort, he returned indoors.

His first acts were to clear away any proof that Will had been there, starting with the bed where he had leaked and the flogging stand, which was still draped with ropes. He was thorough, careful not to leave signs of himself, either. He recovered Will’s glasses and tucked them safely in his breast pocket.

That seen to and both he and Will protected, he went back to consider the problem of Mason.

He dumped the partially melted bowl of ice on Mason’s face by tipping the bowl off with the side of his hand. No prints, after all. The cold caused the man to splutter back to consciousness.

“Mason, I do have some questions for you now, if you don’t mind.” He spoke as civilly as possible, but the tone was harsh, not at all light. Mason sat up, groggily.

“Oh? Looks like we lost our friend—but you’re still here?” His eyes swept around his apartment. His voice came in a rasp, but he cleared his throat and wiped at the moisture on his face. “That was good though—next time, let up a few seconds sooner, and I wouldn’t have blacked out. What was your question?”

“Upstairs, you had a device, I’m rather curious about it.” He kept his inflection cool, composed, very separate from what he was really feeling, which was a mounting wave of lost control, of arousal in the purest sense, a much stronger version than the one that came when his physiology responded to stimuli on its own.

“Show me.” Mack demanded, bounding to his feet.

Hannibal led the way, unafraid of Mason, knowing he was well and truly in charge of the situation. 

“This. What is this for, Mason?”

He lifted a noose with the palm of his hand, as though confused by it.

“That? Autoerotic asphyxiation. That’s not even all that interesting.” He sounded put out, like he expected more from Hannibal’s curiosity.

“How does it work?”

“What kind of shrink doesn’t know that?” He asked, clearly rhetorical, and his gaze traveled up and down Hannibal’s body, as though reevaluating.

Hannibal just smiled, making his face into the mask that he knew inspired potential bedmates to think twice about leaving after a glass of wine.

“Show me?” He suggested, though the voice made it an order.  Mason’s face grew smug, and he dipped his head, as if he thought he could hide his smirk that way.

He tugged on the armature, pulling it over in front of his long mirror and turning his back to Hannibal. He placed the noose around his neck, and took hold of the release in his left hand.

“Not all that different than what you did for me downstairs.” He said conspiratorially, like he thought this made them friends. He unlaced his soiled underwear with his right hand, and slipped it inside, wiggling until the leather shorts slid down his thighs, then further, to pool around his ankles.

Hannibal smiled again, then found himself a seat in the chair in the corner, where he had a good view of both the mirror and the movement of Mack’s hand. He crossed his legs and slid his hands over the knee, squeezing his fingers rhythmically to remind himself not to act—not yet.

Mack had managed to get himself hard again, and was making a show of it, rolling his eyes, panting, licking his lips, the moans coming from him a rival to any porn industry cow that had ever existed. Hannibal was both disgusted and enthralled.

When he thought Mason must be getting close, he stood, the movement graceful and smooth, and reached into his breast pocket, where the surprise he’d procured earlier that day rested.

“Would you like an amyl popper?” He asked conversationally.

Mack looked delighted.

“No wonder you didn’t want the weed—you were holding out on me!” Again came that look like he thought he had Hannibal squarely in the palm of his hand. He shrugged a shoulder, tilting his hips while he jerked himself. “Hell yes I would.”

Hannibal was more than happy to break the little glass vial for Mason, releasing the amyl nitrite… along with a few types of methamphetamines, Angel Dust, and acid. Mack breathed it in like he would die without it, and the grim grin that spread over Hannibal’s face would have assured the man that it was already too late, if he hadn’t been so busy soaring out of his mind.

He watched as Mason lost interest in ejaculating, and slowly began shaking and looking at the room around them as if discovering it for the first time.

Deciding not to leave Will waiting for much longer, he cut to the chase, and let the dogs out of their cage, then aimed a careful kick at the mirror, shattering it. He lifted a well shaped shard, and took the release out of Mack’s hand with his pocket square.

“Wha’s Graham got that I don’t?” Mason demanded, petulant in his stupor. Hannibal laughed mirthlessly.

“He doesn’t hide anything—he is completely open. You, even your face is a mask. Have you ever considered taking it off?” He handed over the shard, then turns and adjusted Mack so he was looking in the mirror again, with Hannibal standing behind him.

“Go on, Mackie boy. Take it off. Show me how pretty you really are.” Now the arousal kicked in fully, strongly. His tongue loosened, and in his mind’s eye became serpentine, split and forked like the devil himself.

Mack raised the glass and carved at one of his high cheekbones, cutting into the hollow of his cheek. “There are pearls in there, aren’t there? Show me where they’re hiding under all this blubber.” Mack moaned as though it was the most intoxicating thing he’d ever heard. He cut off his whole bottom lip, and looked down at it, confused, before registering the dogs snuffling around, licking up the blood at his feet.

Hannibal grinned. Will would appreciate the humor of the situation, he thought.

“Looks like you’ve got a handful there. Give it to the dogs, see what they do.” He gave the command, and Mack didn’t even hesitate, dropping the flesh for the dogs to fight over. “Looks like they want more. And you don’t have it off just yet. Try again.” Mack sliced off first just the tip, then all of the rest of his nose, leaving a gaping hole. He kept up the encouragement until all of Mack’s face shone with wet blood, and was scarred beyond being something recognizable as human.

Tired now of the game, he reached up to the armature, took hold of the bottom of the noose, and jammed the control of the release so that the noose began tightening, more and more, and then, with a tug firmer than most were capable of, Hannibal broke Mason’s neck.

He didn’t deserve to be made into something good—didn’t deserve to grace Hannibal’s table.

“Skanaus!” he whispered to the dogs, a grin in place while he beat a hasty retreat.

And just to be sure that the mutts weren’t interrupted, he locked the door on the way out.

-*-

Will didn’t think he was awake for most of the drive, or in general, really. He must have dozed off for the few minutes that Hannibal went back inside, and the trip back seemed to blink past in the space of a breath.

He woke again when the door opened and Hannibal pushed his hair back from his face, the touch soft and reverent, but his reaction still horrified. He sat up and skittered backwards, knocking his head on the ceiling of the car.

“Will. I’m sorry—we are at my home. We should get you inside, please—it will be getting cold soon. And, I want to be sure none of the skin of your back is broken open.”

They shuffled awkwardly up Hannibal’s driveway, every movement calling up a fresh wave of minor agony until he stopped dead, and had to shake his head.

“I’m sorry—it just.” He didn’t want to sound weak, he already felt it strongly enough, after what he’d… what he’d allowed to happen.

“You are in pain? You have nothing to apologize for.” Hannibal’s voice was rough with emotion, and the last time Will could think of having heard him that way was when he thought he had sent him to his death with Tobias Budge.

“Just give me a sec, and I’ll be fine.” He was shaking, though, and even his shivers were horrifically painful.

“Will, if you would permit, I could carry you.” Hannibal wasn’t bragging. It was a real offer, and he was too weak to argue. He sucked air in between his clenched teeth and nodded his head.

Hannibal did not just lift him up, which would have hurt. He, very gently, wrapped Will’s arms around his neck, then hesitated, as if afraid to touch him.

“Your thighs, as I recall, were not in good condition. If you can grasp me with your knees, I can carry you that way.” Hannibal rotated in the circle of Will’s arms, offering him his back.

Will bit his lower lip and did as he was told, surprised only to feel a shallow twinge of agony, as opposed to the debilitating wave of it he expected.

Looking like some kind of silly monkey baby, he made it inside far faster than he would have otherwise, and When he made as if to climb off at the door, Hannibal cleared his throat.

“My supplies are upstairs. If you will maintain your hold, I will get you there.”

Will eyed the stairs somewhat suspiciously, then whispered a quiet, “Okay.” He sure as hell couldn’t climb them. Not like this.

Hannibal locked up, then made his way a little bit falteringly upstairs, obviously not used to this kind of weight on his back. Will, for his part, made a concentrated effort not to move, lest his center of balance be thrown off.

He had only been up here a handful of times, and most recently when Hannibal had been sick nearly out of his mind. He didn’t expect to be taken into the master bathroom, though—not when there were the guestrooms available for use. But Hannibal stopped there all the same, and Will let himself down, inhaling sharply when his legs too his weight again, and the muscles under his abused skin changed shape.

Hannibal stripped off his jacket and vest, and Will shrunk away, turning his head so he wouldn’t have to see, but Hannibal stopped there, just rolling up his sleeves.

“I imagine you will want to shower, or perhaps bathe, but I would like to check for any broken skin first, if it is okay with you. I do not want to risk infection with you.” Hannibal spoke carefully, making sure everything was his choice. He appreciated it, but it was unnecessary. He was not, as Hannibal had been keen to point out once, fragile china.

“That’s fine. Thank you.” He spoke, then bit his tongue as he began the painful struggle of disrobing. This time, Hannibal grimaced at the pain he saw on Will’s face, and jumped in to help.

The shirt came off, then the pants, and Hannibal let Will put a hand on his shoulder for balance while he bent over and pulled them off of his feet.

Will, standing above and looking down on the firm muscles of Hannibal’s shoulders through his crisp shirt, knew that this was part of how his killers felt sometimes—powerful, in charge, but also in pain and fucked up beyond belief.

He wasn’t that, though, had no urge to destroy Hannibal. At most, he wanted to possess him completely, and like Hannibal had said, who could even tell if that was him talking, or the mad men in his head?

He sighed, feeling exhausted, achy, and defeated.

Hannibal rose, and he found his hand moving, his fingers carding through his hair. Hannibal froze.

“Will…” His voice was a warning, but not the sort that said stop, just the sort that wanted him to know what he was doing. “You’ve just been through a particularly traumatic night…”

He nodded mutely and turned when Hannibal tugged at him.

“The welts are broken in a few places, but it is mostly superficial. If properly cared for, they should not even scar. Here.” He opened the door under his sink and pulled out a military style metal first aid kit—much bigger than anything Will had ever seen or used.

Hannibal spread disinfectant jelly across the wounds, and he was kind, his fingers gentle and his palms warm and careful, afraid to hurt him. He hissed, just the same, when the strong fingers ran over what must be bruises, and he imagined his back as Hannibal must see it, the shin speckled with red and striped with swirling mounds of raised skin, surrounded by an ugly purple. He could almost hear Mason’s voice in his ear again. ‘What will Hannibal think of you after this?’ Will began to shake again. Hannibal stood and Will no longer felt in charge, or strong, or… anything other than pain on the outside and numbness on the inside.

If he didn’t want him before this, he certainly wouldn’t want him now.

“Your shower or bath should wait until that has soaked in a little. It contains a local numbing agent, so that the water will not hurt as much as it would have otherwise. Until then, can I make you something to eat? Something to drink?”

“Would you—”

He cut himself off, closed his eyes and bit down on the inside of his lip as a tremor ran through his body. When he opened them, Hannibal was leaning against his counter, carefully not making contact with him, but close enough to catch him if he looked like he might fall. And he was so patient, just waiting for Will to ask.

 _I need this._ Will told himself. He pulled his arms up to cross over one another, felt like he was pulling himself together, and if he let go he might just shake apart.

“I cannot know what you need unless you ask me, Will. But there is very little I would deny you right now.” Hannibal’s voice was even and he was watching him closely. Will swallowed and nodded.

“Would you just… hold me for a few minutes? I know—“ He broke off when the good doctor rose immediately and engulfed him in his arms, as though he had just been waiting for Will to ask. Maybe he had.

Will leaned into his chest with a small sob, buried his face in the thin shirt material, and let himself shake. Hannibal held him, pressed their chests together as if he thought he could make Will stronger that way, could chase out the torment with his body heat. His legs started feeling useless, and then they began to buckle, and he let out an embarrassed whine. Hannibal took careful hold of him and moved him out of the bathroom and into his bedroom.

He was being steered towards Hannibal’s bed, and he couldn’t bring himself to care or be nervous or awkward… he was too busy berating himself for being weak and useless.

Venomous voices in his head were telling him that none of the men he imagined himself as would ever be this weak—Garrett Jacob Hobbs would never have allowed himself to be drugged. Tobias Budge would never have been overpowered. Even Hannibal—especially Hannibal—would never have allowed someone to nearly rape him. He would never have needed to be rescued.

“Will, do you think it is safe to lay on your side? I want to take the weight off of your legs, but I do not want you to hurt.”

He shook his head miserably.

“His whip wrapped around my thighs more often than not.” He sounded plaintive, and was honestly afraid that Hannibal would have to let go of him now.

But Hannibal just pursed his lips, nodded, and fell gracefully backwards onto the bed, Will’s body still cradled by his.

Will landed on top of him and his eyes opened wide. He struggled in Hannibal’s hold as a knee jerk reaction, and Hannibal let him go.  He scrambled onto his knees before he got a hold of himself, the shakes starting up again when he realized that Hannibal wasn’t holding him any longer.

But that didn’t help, it only served to make him panic more, and he ended up straddling Hannibal, reaching for his arms, trying to wrap them around himself and muttering “Please…”

Hannibal rearranged them, moving until his back was propped by pillows and the headboard, and Will was resting his weight on his knees, his hands on Hannibal’s shoulders, Hannibal’s arms wrapped around his back.

And for Will it seemed like only the most logical, natural thing to lean forward and kiss Hannibal, to press their lips together and angle his head. And to his surprise, Hannibal responded not by chiding him, but by opening his mouth.

And then Will was drowning in him, licking into Hannibal’s mouth and kissing him as though it was the only thing tethering him to earth. As if it was his last chance. And, he realized, it probably was.

This was just Hannibal not denying him, wasn’t it? This was him taking advantage of his being hurt, and using it to get what he wanted from his friend, because he cared for him, because he wanted to help.

He broke their kiss with a strangled gasp, shudders shaking his shoulders.

“I’m sorry. I’m sorry, that was stupid, I didn’t mean, I shouldn’t--” Hannibal cut through his babbling with an imperious finger on his mouth.

“I let one of my other patients take advantage of your attraction to me, because I was afraid that I would do the same thing.” The words were calm, a confession without sounding guilty or pained—Hannibal knew he empathized easily, and didn’t want to be forgiven based on his emotions. He didn’t want to push his feelings on Will. That was why Will couldn’t read him, sometimes. A lot of the time, actually. That was… really thoughtful.

“So you… feel guilty? And you’re making it up to me by letting me…” He stopped when Hannibal made an annoyed noise and pressed in again.

“I am not guilty. I am sorry for what has happened to you, and sorry for my role in it, but I am not _letting_ you do anything. This is hardly born of pity, William.”

“Hannibal?” He felt like he needed to ask something, but didn’t know what, didn’t know what he needed.

Hannibal hummed in answer, his eyes busy tracing the curve of Will’s lips.

“I didn’t… it wasn’t right, what he did, but…” The but hung there, heavy and as much a confession as Hannibal’s admission.

“Were there aspects that you enjoyed? Or think you might have, under different circumstances?” Hannibal looked like he knew, and Will just felt so ashamed. Mason had been right—what would Hannibal think of him after this?

Bad enough imagining hurting people, now wanting to be the victim, it had to be some sort of carry over from the crime scenes, just one more thing wrong with him. He looked down, fixating on one of the buttons on Hannibal’s shirt, and sighed.

How may more things could be wrong with him before Hannibal—and everyone else, though he thought Hannibal would be the last one to abandon him—gave up, and decided he was a lost cause? A waste of their time and efforts?

How long before the trouble he caused was no longer worth fixing, when weighed against the good he did?

Hannibal brought two fingers to rest under Will’s chin and tilted his head up, making him meet his eyes. Will didn’t flinch away, though, somehow both the eye contact and the physical contact calming him, more than anything else.

“What did he do to you, Will?” Hannibal’s voice was intense, insistent.

“I don’t… I’m not really ready to talk about it yet, I think.” He said, his jaw working while he tried to contain his anxiety at the thought of being made to relive it so soon.

“Will, you are in my lap, in my bed, only clothed by the barest of standards, after I recovered you from the house of a madman. If anyone deserves some explanation, I would argue that it is me.”

Will took a deep breath, pushing down the voiced in his head yelling about how this was too soon, that it was out of character for Hannibal not to be more understanding.

“He—he had me tied to a rack, and he undressed me, and then… the whip…” He could almost feel the thuds of leather hitting his flesh again, but worse, could see himself as the one wielding the whip, could feel the high of inflicting pain. He shivered.

“What about it, Will? Did you like the bondage? The impact?” Hannibal pressed on, and Will found himself collapsing into Mason.

“He liked hitting me. He liked the pain, liked the… the control. Liked the idea of my remembering him for longer than it would take to shower him off.” He sounded dead to his own ears.

“But what did you like, Will? Not him—I understand his attraction to it. What did _you_ like?” For the first time, Hannibal sounded downright impatient, and the change in his voice was interesting enough to draw Will back out of himself.

“I liked… I would have liked the hurt, if it was more controlled. Not just the where and how hard but the… the blows themselves, they wrapped around and it was… it felt sloppy. He wanted it to be sloppy, but I want it… not…” He trailed off, having to work to separate the two.

“If you would like, I could perhaps use a cane on you. There is a good deal more control. What do you say?” His voice changed, losing some of the elegant edge, as he continued. “Shall I mark you up, Will? Lay you out and make lines all down your back, your ass, your thighs? Hit you til you burn and beg me for release?” Will gasped, reasonably sure that was the first time he had heard Hannibal curse. He knew he should be terrified, repulsed, not even be talking about such activities until the current mess that constituted his back had healed, but this was… unexpectedly turning him on. Good lord, he was messed up.

“I—yeah.” He managed to force out, and Hannibal slid his hands down Will’s back, blunt and well manicured nails playing across the lines  of welts like Will was some sort of musical instrument. He moaned.

“What else?” Hannibal demanded. “Was there more?”

“He asked me to… to sing for him. When I cried out.” He could feel his erection straining to attention, and could feel that Hannibal was getting worked up, too. His touches had become a little less gentle, his fingertips digging into the bruises. Will swallowed against the pain that caused, the delicious wave of hazy red.

“Are you usually loud in bed, Will?” Hannibal asked. “Do you talk dirty, or cry yes, or no, or call out to God?” His voice sounded almost nasty now, mocking, but that also struck him as confusingly hot.

“N-no. I… I usually try, try to be quiet.” Hannibal had begun rolling his hips up and against Will’s.

“Why? For your dogs’ sake? Or does this go back further? Were you afraid to be caught? Didn’t want Daddy to know what you were doing?” Will let out a quiet gasp and began bearing his weight down against Hannibal, squirming into his hardness.  Hannibal pressed on.

“I’m sure that was it, but it was in vain, do you know that? You father would have been able to smell it on you. The same way I can now. You smell like sex, Will. And not from Mason, you smell like your own arousal. Are you hot for me now, Will? Want me to make you cry out? Make you scream?” He continued with a sort of urgent insistence, and Will found himself at a loss, overwhelmed. This was not—when he’d let himself imagine—

Was this wrong?

Hannibal bucked up into him, breaking his chain of thoughts again, and his mouth dropped open. Hannibal struck quickly, like a snake, and dipped his fingers into Will’s mouth.

He knew exactly what that was for, and his heart started fluttering, a tightness growing in his stomach. He tried to spit out Hannibal’s fingers, but Hannibal just flexed them, rubbing the pads of his middle and ring fingers over his tongue. Will was shaking again, no longer bucking against Hannibal, trying to communicate that he’d changed his mind. He could see the moment Hannibal realized, see his eyes flick down to Will’s mouth. He hesitated, then withdrew.

“I… am sorry, I got… carried away.” He finished lamely. “Can you forgive me?” and just like that he was perfectly cool and under control. The fact that he didn’t seem at all disappointed was what really made Will feel the most guilty.

“I… there was one more thing.” His traitor of a mouth began speaking before he had thought it through.

“Oh?” Hannibal was interested, Will could tell by the dangerous purr, the way his chest vibrated with that single syllable.

“When I was in the vacuum table… and I couldn’t see, or move, and then the ice… I had never thought of myself wanting to be fucked before.” He intentionally used the crudest word at his disposal, because Hannibal had, because it seemed Hannibal liked that.

“Now… now I.” He hesitated, and Hannibal stroked his palm across Will’s cheek, forgiving him without knowing what he was trying to say.

Will took a deep breath and took the plunge.

“Now I want you to spread me out on my back and fuck me, so that it hurts. But… I want to feel good, over the hurt. Do you—can you do that?”

Hannibal just smiled at him and shifted, slowly at first, until he’d managed to roll them over, so that Will’s back—his welts, his bruises and all—were touching the high thread count pillowcase.

“I can do that. And the next time we do _this_ ,” Hannibal said, punctuating the sentence with a roll of his hips, “It won’t be someone else’s hurts that I make you feel.” Will groaned at the images that flooded his mind, of Hannibal tying him up, of him whip-no, _caning_ him, of knives that catch the light of his kitchen fixtures and shine in his eyes, of Will, stretched out on Hannibal’s table like a five course meal…

While his mind had gone wild, Hannibal had not been inattentive, and Will felt a flash of wet heat on his shoulder, followed by a sharp twinge of pain.

Will let out a surprised cry and came back to himself, and Hannibal pressed a kiss over the top of the tooth marks he’d left behind.

“Your mind was too far away.” Hannibal rumbled, and the sound made Will’s skin crawl with want.

“So’s your skin. Why are you still dressed?” Will felt whiny, but his hands were not coordinated enough right now to undo the buttons down the front of Hannibal’s shirt. Funny, for a man who unwound by building lures, doing detail work. Funny, and pathetic.

He tried, clawing at the fastenings in a way that Hannibal probably would not thank him for.

Hannibal finally batted away his hands and sat up on his haunches, mimicking Will’s earlier pose. His lips curled up, amused, or perhaps aware of the parallel. Either way, Will could do nothing but watch and squirm while Hannibal made quick work of his expensive shroud, and never blinked or looked away from Will’s face.

He had to get up to shuck his pants, and he did so quickly, despite Will’s moaned protest at the loss of contact. But then he was back, as quickly as he’d left, and he hooked his fingers under the elastic of Will’s boxers.

He paused there, though, obviously asking permission in his silence and stillness, and Will felt his eyes rolling before he could stop them.

“You’re going to have a hard time fucking me if you don’t take them off, aren’t you?”  It came out drier than intended, more a barb and less of a quip, but he couldn’t help himself. He was anxious, tense, and he wanted this. So much. But… but there was also fear there. And a certainty that, just for wanting this tonight, after everything else, he was wrong. Messed up. Worse than he’d ever thought, in new and different ways.

But hell. He could put that aside, couldn’t he? He had when he went after Alana.

He swallowed as the cotton whispered down his legs, dragging more on the tops of his thighs while Hannibal was careful not to aggravate the backs of them. Will closed his eyes and smiled, enjoying the attentiveness, enjoying being cared for.

“What part of this makes you think I am not already having a _hard time_?” Hannibal asked, having tossed the last bit of fabric that had been between them far out of reach.

Will laughed at the horrible joke, but the laugh dissolved into a choke, then a gasp, when Hannibal brought them together and fisted them both. It was rough, and dry, slow at first, then faster when Will spat across his own palm, then ran his hand over both of them. Hannibal bucked into it soundlessly, bearing down on Will, his weight comforting and warm, even while it made his back flare with pain.

“Tell me Will, tell me what you feel, what you think.” Hannibal’s voice was desperate, insistent, forcing Will to be present.

“I feel hollow, like this… this spiraling round of pleasure, and. And it’s so cold but everywhere you touch is warm. Hungry, but… in a different way. Need to be filled. By you, please…” Hannibal sped up the motion of their hands and Will groaned, his speech, already disjointed and fraught with pauses, suddenly no longer capable of even qualifying as language.

He knew his mouth was open, and he was panting and loosing gutturals, small yelps and whines. He fought to control that part, at least, to be collected, like Hannibal. Will was a mess but Hannibal wasn’t. He was… He was watching him, his face so close, but so closed off, always so closed off. For his own protection, Will thought. So that he couldn’t take the hurt Hannibal did. Because he wasn’t capable. He’d break under that kind of strain. He couldn’t.

He closed his eyes tightly, screwing them shut.

“Please. Now.”

-*-

The physical domination had always struck him as a pale shadow of the killer’s final conquest, but this was different. It was one more step, one pace closer, to his taking over of Will’s mind. And end to a means, and a glorious end at that.

He had no preconceived notions of gender roles, here. It hardly mattered to him. Will could be one of his precious dogs for all he cared, as long as his mind was there.

And just now, Hannibal was simultaneously driving him out of his mind, an d making it focus all the clearer. He was so careful to mind all of Will’s quirks, when he looked away, when he tensed, when he breathed.

His heart pounded in time with Hannibal’s, his breaths fighting to synch despite his obvious panting. Even without trying, he was adjusting to Hannibal, sympathizing with him on a physical plane, if unable to connect on an emotional one.

Hannibal pressed his palm flat over Will’s eyes and rested his forehead on the back of his hand, his nose brushing into the cupid’s bow of Will’s mouth. He inhaled Will’s breath, tasted it as he took that small bit of Will into himself, and he breathed out as Will prepared to take a much larger part of Hannibal in.

“I must get the lube, and this will hurt regardless, if you cannot relax.” He informed him, tethering himself to his calm side again, regardless of how riled he had allowed himself to become. He loved hearing…. Hearing from Will all of the things  he was afraid to say, all of the things he knew the world would hold against him.

Hannibal planned to hold much against him tonight, and tomorrow, he would start turning these sweat stained confessions into pointed barbs, for the purpose of puncturing his skull and filling his dreams with thorns.

After all, what better way was there to be sure he would keep coming back?

He staggered to his feet, fisting himself as he moved to the bathroom in an effort to avoid the walk of unbridled stupidity, with his erection waving about as if to declare an open season on his sensitive, blood laden nether regions.

This was a sort of vulnerability, he mused. And he was sharing it with the one man best suited to bring about his ruin. But through that vulnerability, he was taking advantage of Will’s, and helping to ensure that, when the time came, Will would do no such thing.

He returned to his bed to see Will had rolled onto his stomach, displaying his ass—and all of the hurts Mason had inflicted on him.

“I have also a condom. I thought it best, until we have both been tested.”

Will looked back over his shoulder at Hannibal.

“I’m clean. Can you—would you--” He bit his lip. “I’ve already been--and I couldn’t. Want to feel you Hannibal. _Please._ ”

“You will feel me, I promise you. A tiny layer of protection will hardly change that.” He was amused. Of course he understood. Will had been encased in latex, unable to move, his every sense dulled by it.

And, under any other circumstance, he would have agreed, fucked him raw and not been overly concerned with it. He had seen Will’s blood test results, his scans. The man was, indeed, clean. Well, save for the inflammation in his brain. And he was not particularly fond of them.

But this was a tiny torment, easily masquerading as care, as concern. He would hate it now, and thank him later. So he grinned and slid it on, the motion practiced, as all his motions were, to the point of grace. He slicked himself up, then poured a small handful in his palm, warming it as much as he could before he spoke again.

“Get your knees under you, Will, and lift. This may be a little chill, but I need to open you before I go any further.” He knew, too, that what people as a general rule, feared the most, was not knowing what to expect. What came next.

He had no problem giving Will what he wanted—he shared those wants, wanted to tear him apart, make him feel everything—but for his own comfort, and to be able to go back to playing the role he had maintained thus far, he had to spend some care, some politeness, on the process. Besides, he was Hannibal Lecter. He refused to do anything and not do it _well._

His first finger encountered resistance. Resistance, and heat. Will jerked away from him at first, then eased back, slowly bore down on him until he had gotten the finger in up to the second knuckle.

Sighing as he steeled his will to see him through the process, he was struck by inspiration and, with his other hand, he pressed down, hard, on one of the prettier marks decorating the length of Will’s spine.

Will yelped by his ass unclenched, and Hannibal’s finger slid home. He hummed softly, smoothing the harming hand in soft circles, trying to be encouraging and maintain his poise, all but biting down on his own lip to keep the filth he felt bubbling up within him from spilling out as words.

No need to scare Will away. No need to warn him of what to expect on that front.

“I’m putting in another,” he said. _Going to open you just enough not to hurt me, but just little enough to hurt you._ He wanted to say these things, wanted to tell Will all the dark bits of his mind. But he also realized how dangerous that would be. Could be. What he stood to loose.

“ _Please_.” Will was beyond more words than that, and Hannibal knew if he touched him now, he would feel a heat like a fever on the man. But that hardly mattered. He wanted that. Wanted to burn Will Graham alive, body and mind, and once he had those two securely in his grasp, he would lay waste to his soul.

He was already half way there.

He pressed hi middle finger in, pumping the two of them together experimentally, and working through Will’s vocalized panting. Will opened, slowly but surely, and he let his head drop, chin likely brushing his chest.

Hannibal smirked and pulled his fingers out, before plunging them back in, nearly cruelly, and scissoring them apart inside of him. Will let out a single note, sustained almost like a scream, but lower, more melodic. The second time, his back arched, and Hannibal withdrew.

He’d expected to have to work harder in getting Will to cry out, but to be fair each of these sounds was relatively quiet, loud only to his ears, so careful not to miss anything.

As he slid in, breath hitching at the feel of the younger man tightening against him, he determined to make it a goal—he would have Will Graham screaming before they were done. And judging by the amount of wetness already issuing from his partner’s head, that wouldn’t be long, on his part.

He went down on one knee, taking none too careful of a hold of Will’s hips and pulling him back against his pelvis, thrusting deep and all but forcing his body to accept him. His hands crept up to Will’s shoulder blades while he established a rhythm, quick to the point of punishing, and each thrust squarely landing contact on Will’s prostate. Will was whimpering, damning him, biting at his own arm, but still subdued, still keeping his sounds small.

“Who do you… suppose you will disturb?” Hannibal asked between thrusts, heels of his palms pressing his weight down into Will’s welts. “Scream, Will. Sing for me. There’s no one who will hear if you do.” He actually hadn’t tested that theory, in practice. He had never been so dull as to bring his victims back to his home alive.

Or whole, for that matter.

Will’s whimper was louder, then, and Hannibal let out a dark chuckle and made claws of his hands, running his nails in straight lines all the way down, making sure to touch the blunt tips to every piece of Will’s sensitive, abused skin.

When Will cried out this time, it was not in pleasure, nor was it subdued.

Gratified, Hannibal changed his position, pushing Will down so that he could drape himself over him and direct his thrusts downward, employing both gravity and his body weight to better the power of his thrusts into Will.

Will keened again, and Hannibal reached down to fondle his balls, not letting up in his assault of Will’s ass.

“Come Will, come for me. Give me what you wouldn’t give Mason, give in, give up. Give yourself to me. Don’t resist, it’s useless. You know as well as I do what you are.” The words were rasped, his breath short with the effort his muscles made in swinging in and out of his patient, his colleague, his friend.

“What… I am?” Will sounded afraid, afraid to ask, afraid to hear what Hannibal thought of him.

Hannibal had several answers, only one of which Will would not be devastated to hear. And so that was the one he chose.

“ _Mine.”_ And like that, Will’s mouth fell open, his head leaned back, and he wailed as he came, the sound and tightness urging Hannibal to pound all the more viciously, a half dozen further thrusts until he felt the end approaching, and bottomed out, pushing himself in as far as he could go, and filling the condom he wore.

Sometime, sometime soon, he would have the pleasure of seeing himself pull out, and Will’s hole leaking after him, trying to reject the part of him that he left within, and never able to get him all out. Body and mind.

He lay himself over Will, collapsed onto him, really, and bit once, hard, into Will’s shoulder, over the mark he had left earlier, just to be thoroughly sure that it took.

-*-

It was hard to say whether he’d rolled over while he slept, or if he had been turned over in the night. Will woke slowly, finding himself on his stomach, rather than his customary position on his back, and, as his senses returned—and his awareness of his aches—he remembered why.

He opened his eyes and was surprised to find himself not in his room, but also not in Hannibal’s. He hunted his memory for this particular shade of paint, and recalled, dimly, that this was the guest room. So, still at Hannibal’s house but… not with him. Why?

Had Hannibal moved him here, perhaps out of some discomfort sharing a bed over night? Sleeping together was, to be fair, arguably more intimate than sex. Though not, he supposed, more intimate than some of their conversations…

Or had he wandered here on his own?

He didn’t imagine Hannibal was a deep sleeper… but you never could tell.

What if he had lost time? Had a whole conversation, maybe even given some sort of stupid excuse to get away from him. He couldn’t imagine what he might have said.

He sat up, reaching a hand gingerly to rub the small of his back. There was a fresh layer of ointment there, and he shivered, sure now that it had been applied while he was laying here—moved, then, seemed most likely. The question ‘why’ remained, though.

Hannibal cleared his throat from the doorway.

“Don’t touch. It needs more time to soak in. I’ll admit I had hoped you would sleep a little longer.” He seemed calm, cool, collected. Unchanged, somehow, despite what had transpired between them.

“Why… uh.” Will felt timid, in the daylight. Unsure if it had been him, the drugs, maybe the sticky remnants of Mason’s troubled mind… he would never have done what he did on his own, would he?

“With your sores as they are, I didn’t want to leave you to sleep on sheets so thoroughly soiled as mine were. No need to tempt an infection.” Hannibal smiled slightly, coming forward to drop Will’s glasses on the bedside table.

“Thanks.” He muttered, grimacing as he remembered how he had been separated from them, then wincing when he lifted his arm to reach for them, and discovered Hannibal’s addition to the marks littering his skin. Hannibal smiled at the sight of finger tips pressing into the indents left by his teeth.

“Take your time and relax. I thought I might make breakfast, before you go, if you will stay for it. By the looks of you, you seem to have missed one meal too many.” He cast an appraising eye down Will’s body, and Will flushed, feeling inadequate and simultaneously… cared for. An interesting combination.

“Yes, thank you, that… that would be great.”

-*-

Breakfast was interrupted by the shrill call of Hannibal’s home phone line—a disgusting breach of the mood of the moment, but it could hardly be helped.

“Excuse me?” He asked. Will nodded, and he gather his napkin from his lap and wiped his mouth quickly, lest he leave food behind on the receiver.

“Hello?” He asked, tone neutral, face composed.

As the person on the other end began to speak, his fingers twitched, and he had to fight hard to not allow anything to show on his face.

“Yes of course. I shall be right there. Yes, thank you. Good bye.”

“Something the matter?” Will was sitting up straight, concern etched in every feature.

Hannibal sighed.

“I did not reach Mason’s case worker. It seems his paperwork had a false or wrong number—the real case worker found him this morning. He’s had… an accident.”

“Good.” Will responded fervently, his declaration harsh enough that despite the trouble that Hannibal knew he would be in, he could not help but feel glad.

“It seems he did not die. I must go to see what is to be done. I’m sorry.” Sorry, mostly, that breaking Mason’s neck was not enough, and that he had somehow managed not to bleed out overnight.

“It’s alright. I’m sure my dogs are wondering where I am, anyway.” Will stood, wiping his face on his own napkin.

He came to stand before Hannibal, then hesitated, eyes darting around before he forced them up to meet Hannibal’s eyes. Hannibal smiled encouragingly.

Shyly, Will smiled back.

Then he leaned up and kissed Hannibal.

“Thank you.” He muttered. Hannibal rested a large hand on Will’s shoulder and kissed him again, this time squeezing over his mark while he did. Will swooned visibly, until they parted, and like that, he was out the door.  

Hannibal was left to figure out how to talk his way out of this one—and how to finish the job. But very little was likely to upset him, just now.

Will Graham was in his debt, and firmly twisted around his little finger.

Right where he wanted him.  

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for reading, and I hope that you enjoyed. If you want updates on future stories, want to talk about Hannibal or just want to drop by and say hi, you can find me at MostFacinorous.tumblr.com!


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